The Secret Man
by russianspy
Summary: Two parallel stories. 1960s Russia: A young married woman has an affair with Godric. Present day: Her granddaughter, Eliza, goes through a terrible fate but discovers that death is not the end. After Godric's death and Nora's end with Hep V, Eliza searches for Eric Northman. She may be the only one that can stop him from his burning fate in Åre, Sweden.
1. Chapter 1

**Was inspired by the life of my grandmother and her shitty relationship with my grandfather. I decided to create the fantasy of her meeting Godric and giving her relief.**

***Photo references to characters in my profile. **

**Please Review! I'd love to know what you think!**

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**Prologue **

**Tomsk, Siberia, Russia **

**March 1962**

The wind howled outside of the shabby homes. It was a neighborhood of them, and outside of the sector there was a backdrop of cold, bland soviet buildings. The streets were thick with snow. No shoveling trucks came and they most likely wouldn't. No one ventured outside. Dogs didn't bark. It was still, empty, and it was freezing—it was a frozen white land where new snow fell and swept across like that of a pale desert. Street lamps flickered, standing between every couple of houses. The snow obscured their light.

In front of one of the shabby homes there was movement through the windows of the kitchen, movement on the floor. A couple lay there in the darkness, covered in blankets. The stove was gently burning, casting a small, orange glow across the old wooden floor.

Valeria—most called her Lera—stared up at the ceiling, the look of unhappiness on her face, like she just made the worst mistake of her life, a decision she couldn't take back no matter how much she wanted to. She got married—and to a man she realized she hated.

She was a pretty brunette girl with a soft, round face and a smile that was infectious to others, a beautiful smile. There had been other options, other men that had fancied her. She wasn't like those skinny girls, bone thin with no breasts. She was a real woman with a real figure, supple yet not overweight. She had breasts that men stared at in secret. Only, it was her now-husband Misha that was able to touch him, grab them, suck on them like he liked. He had made sure to scare every other man off. It was how he won her.

Maybe she agreed because everyone else was doing it. They were one of the last couples. They dated for too long. She broke it off with him dozens of times, but he always begged her back, and she was stupid enough to agree. And while Misha never got kissing right—Lera thought it was because of his thin lips—he did bring her flowers almost every week after class. He had written her letters, telling her of his affections, and praising her smarts, natural beauty and kind nature.

She accepted his gifts, but she didn't want him. She couldn't give herself to Misha completely because there was another man, a sweet, quiet man. His name was Godric.

He wasn't Russian, but he spoke the language perfectly. She honestly didn't know what country he was from. She saw him after class most days, a few times a week, assumed he went to her university. When Misha wasn't in sight, of course. If she was in a hurry, it would be simply a few minutes of chatting, or sometimes Godric accompanied her to the library where they would speak about books and science, particularly astronomy because she was fascinated with the cosmos. And then they would go outside and gaze at the stars because Godric had absolutely every star and constellation memorized, and he would tell her about the countries he visited, countries like Italy and France—where she dreamed to go. And histories he knew by heart, so knowledgeable he seemed far older than he appeared. An old soul.

He made her laugh and his presence made her feel happy, like he was her secret friend. He gave her butterflies and his soft-spoken manner, his polite nature, made her trust him with her entire heart. He never did wrong by her, never upset her. Sometimes he dried her tears when she was upset. He would suppress his anger when it was Misha's fault, and calm her down.

He told her his parents were gone, and he didn't have any siblings. It was just him, and an inheritance. But he dressed as simply and plainly as everyone else, and didn't boast about the money he supposedly had. He had taken her out a couple times to the café and bought her lunch. But it was innocent. They were merely friends. However, she knew she liked him. Yet she didn't know that he had a secret he hid, a secret that didn't allow him to claim her as his own. They barely touched each other, and never kissed.

So Misha snatched her up. Lera waited for Godric, but he did nothing. She never questioned him, and his true nature held him back.

Because the wedding would take time, Misha wanted them to sign the papers at city hall as soon as possible—maybe because he was afraid she would back out. And it did cross her thoughts more than few times. The closer it came to signing the papers, the more it hurt inside each time she looked at Godric. And he began to see her less and less, began to almost fade away among the sea of congratulating friends.

To convince her to marry him, Misha told her they were right for each other, and he would never love another woman as he loved her. She was his counterpart, he'd say, and he hers, and he needed a smart woman like her. It was how she was able to think for herself that he liked. He told her how he marveled at her each time the two of them would go out with friends, and Lera would always articulate her point of view in a conversation and stand her ground to disagreement. Lera wasn't brash, but she had a way of convincing people and wining their hearts. That's how she had won Misha's.

As Lera lay beside her passed out husband, staring at the ceiling, she wished it were Godric instead.

Misha didn't know how she finally agreed, but she did—maybe to get him to stop near begging. Maybe it was because Godric made no moves and she didn't want to wait any longer because she thought it wouldn't happen. A month before they signed the papers, Godric all but disappeared.

When they signed the papers, by law were officially man and wife, but until the actual wedding ceremony they had to live separate. It was partly because they couldn't afford a proper place to live together, and also because Lera's mother was apprehensive about the marriage in its entirety. She outright did not like Misha and had a bad feeling about him. So the two married without her blessing, and for two weeks Lera saw her husband as she always did—not every day, every morning and night, but after class when she had time between studying and finishing her thesis.

She had spent nights alone in the library. It was as if Godric had never existed.

Misha would bring her flowers just as he always did and called her his sweet wifey. In fact, he called her wifey in front of everyone, and boasted.

Little did he and Lera, especially Lera, know that Godric watched from a distance, saddened. No matter how much he wanted to, he believed he couldn't reenter her life again.

When the day of the wedding came, Lera found her flowers wilted during the night. Her mother was there, of course, but instead of looking on with a smile, it was more of a rueful frown.

The celebration was simple but good. Lera liked to dance. Joy did come on the day, joy fed by family and friends. It made her sadness go away for a short moment.

But then Misha drank, drank a lot—it was how _he_ celebrated. Her nightmare of a marriage began to unfold when she regarded him in his entirety, as if for the first time. The music faded, as did her brief happiness. She saw his drunken looks, his thin-lipped, lopsided smile. She watched him spill his booze, met his glazed gray eyes, which couldn't focus properly. His laughter sounded foolish. Until then she had let him pull her, lead her, while her thoughts were elsewhere. She had been in a daze since they signed the papers. She could only think of Godric, and his disappearance had made her weak. So Misha won.

Maybe Godric never existed. Reality set in.

And after their wedding, it dawned on her that she and Misha would have to spend their first night together. Misha would be drunk. She would have to touch him, for she hadn't before. Oh no. Maybe it was one of the reasons why Misha wanted her—the idea of taking a virgin.

The idea of touching him sickened her.

Lera's mother refused to take them into her house, so instead Misha's own mother agreed to keep them at hers. It was a one bedroom, one-story house and they would have the kitchen where they would have to sleep on the floor. The bedroom was where Misha's four younger sisters slept. His mother slept in the living room. That was how they would spend their night.

Lera had been put off right away because of the circumstances. They'd have no privacy.

Presently when Misha scooted closer and touched her hip, the two of them under the slightly musty blanket his mother provided, Lera shivered in revulsion. He leaned towards her to kiss her with a breath so terrible she felt a strike of nausea in her stomach. She had also learned that he loved garlic and his breath smelled of it too. Booze and garlic. She'd seen a spread of drying garlic in the living room earlier.

He was drunk and swaying on his elbow. She was glad she vaguely saw his face through the darkness.

"No, Misha," she said. "You haven't brushed your teeth."

"I don't need to brush my teeth. Let me kiss you, my wonderful wifey," he said, and his voice fluctuated like a radio with bad single. Loud, then soft on each word. Gruff, too.

His hand slid under the blanket, down her thigh, up her nightgown, and between her legs. She tried shifting away, stopped him with her own hand.

She took in a breath and stared at the faint lines that were his lips. She heard giggles. If Misha did, he didn't pay attention. He was too drunk to register his sisters' voices. Behind the curtain in the doorway. Yes, no door, but a fucking curtain.

His hand overpowered hers and slipped into her underwear.

She felt them enter her and grimaced. It wasn't pleasant at all. "You hear, your sisters are snooping!" she said. "Misha, don't—"

She couldn't help but push him away.

All he said, rather moaned, was, "No," and pushed against her.

This time his arm wound around her entire waist and he swung himself on top of her and assailed her mouth. She lay motionless, frozen, under him and stared into the darkness of his forehead as he tried to suck her lips the way a gorilla would suck food, or maybe another gorilla.

She felt him pulling down his pajama pants to take out his cock. It wasn't as hard as it had been before, earlier, when he tried to fuck her. Its size added to the nausea. He had been drunker then, so when she had pushed him away the first time, all he did was knock out easily.

But now he wanted to try again.

Holding his penis with his hand, he tried to force his way between her thighs and inside. He was incredibly graceless and clumsy, and was suffocating her with his weight.

When she couldn't take it any more, his breath and his unromantic ministrations, and the groping, she pushed him off as hard as she could. He fell onto his back beside her. He _umph_'d and sunk into fatigue and stupor.

"Bitch," he moaned.

Lera felt tears in her eyes. She was thankfully that he'd drank so much because she didn't want to think about how his advances would've been if he wasn't inebriated. She lay on her back and stared at the ceiling and the uneven texture she knew was there.

The giggling stopped. She didn't know if his sisters ran away, but after a short while, Misha began to snore. And she felt not a wink of sleep. The only thing she felt was the beat of her heart that slowly thumped within her.

It beat steady but quick, among the other hearts in the house, among others' breaths. Godric heard the sounds in his ears. He stood outside of the window, obscured by the curtains. He watched with clenched fists. He gazed at Lera's tear streaked face. Her misery made him furious. The fate she now accepted pained him to no end.

But still he did nothing. He just watched—standing in the snow with bare feet and just a shirt on, no coat. He was as pale as the snow, but as still as the trees in the yard so that no one would notice him. But it was dead of night. The neighborhood was asleep. White flakes of snow covered his head and shoulders. He didn't move a muscle as he watched.

Lera didn't sleep. She was as almost as still, corpse-like, if it wasn't for her breathing.

After an hour went by, there was more giggling. Misha turned over onto his stomach, moaned loudly, and farted. Lera had sprung up and sat.

"Quiet," she hissed.

The kids ran to their room, the curtain in the threshold fluttering behind them. Their foot falls sounded like the footfalls of insolent puppies.

In the window, Godric's fangs glinted in the glow from the snow outside. The girls had seen him.

Lera at last turned to her husband who was half in, half out of consciousness.

"Misha, I'm leaving," she whispered to him.

"Where?" he moaned, more eloquent after more sleep.

"Back home," she said as she stood.

He opened his eyes to her movement and said, "You're crazy."

"I am not staying here in the your mother's kitchen when we have absolutely no privacy. I can't."

"Well, I was sleeping and thought we had some privacy," he said. "And we didn't even fuck yet."

She didn't reply to that, clenching her fists.

"You didn't hear your nosy sisters. You can stay." And she went over to where her things were, began to put on her wool trousers and sweaters over her nightgown. "I'm going."

Misha watched her through the dimness that was muted by the thick falling snow outside. He stared at it through the window for just a moment, wondered what time of night it was. Godric was gone. In his place were two footprints in the snow.

Misha's sleepiness restrained his annoyance for the time being. He allowed himself to relish the warmth his own body produced there on his side of the "bed" on the floor.

"It's the middle of the night, Lera," he reasoned.

"And I shall have more peace and quite walking through it than staying here," she said. "As I've said, you can stay here."

"But you're my wife now."

"Then come with me and act like my husband."

He muttered, "Stubborn woman, " and at last rose.

She was nearly dressed. He had to hurry and get his clothes on as his body protested to being woken up so unreasonably. They collected their things in silence, and steadily, the longing for sleep set in, and he became irritable.

He told his sleeping mother they were leaving, and she was too tired from the day to make them stay. He grabbed some garlic on the way, grumbling, calling Lera a bitch once more. A dull headache set in him and he shivered as she opened the front door to the narrow street that separated even houses from odd.

The street was covered in a thick wool blanket of white, and their black woolen boots sunk in that sea.

"Shit, we're going to freeze to death because of you," Misha complained. He followed Lera from the house.

She fixed the scarf that she had wrapped around her head and neck, and squinted her eyes to watch where she was going. She felt tears returning.

"Then go back," was all she said as she glanced back at him.

The walk back to the dormitories of the city's college was six miles away, six miles that would take them all night because the public transport stopped and there was a curfew. They walked in silence with Misha complaining every now and then because he was tired and his vodka-induced headache was persisting.

She kept telling him he could've gone back, could've stayed in the warmth of her mother's dusty, old kitchen, but he never actually turned around. He never left her because his complaints had been empty.

They made it out of the neighborhood and entered the city street and its empty apartment buildings and businesses, as quiet as death.

Misha's voice was scary and stark in contrast to the stillness. He spoke viciously in whisper, ten feet behind her. Though he was quiet, she heard him and fear cut in.

"You know what, you're going to repay me for this when we get back. You want privacy? Fine. My roommate's gone, and you're going to come to my dorm, and I want to eat that pussy of yours. I want to pound it so hard that you scream."

Lera said nothing. She felt the tears freeze on her cheeks. They were numb. Her eyelashes were frozen too. She wanted to die.

Misha grinned but said nothing else.

Above, on the roof of one of the apartments, Godric stood, heard them, watching. His beautiful boyish face was brimming with anger. His eyes were deadly.

Lera stared ahead of her, leading the way through this nightmare. She thought back to him, Godric, wished she could somehow turn back time. She wished _she'd_ have done something, anything. If it had been possible, she wished she'd have run away with him.

She spoke before she could stop herself, barely a whisper. "Godric."

At that, the vampire disappeared in a blur from the roof.

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**Ten Years Before Present Day**

Valeria sat in the silence of the hospital room. The only sound was the beeping of the monitors in front of her. It was night. The old woman was motionless in the armchair beside the bed, her arms on the arm rests, her hands gently gripping the edges. Her once beautiful face was full of wrinkles, sagging, but her eyes were clear behind her glasses.

In one of her hands she held a soggy handkerchief. But for the moment, her tears had stilled.

In the hospital bed lay a woman in her early twenties—brown hair, a face almost similarly round. Her breathing was labored. It was her granddaughter.

It was unexpected, what had happened. It was meningitis. Antibiotics were administered and so were antiviral drugs, but the prognosis wasn't good. She could be better, yet there were possible, more than likely complications. Death was possible.

There was nothing worse in the world than tragedies that struck children and grandchildren. If she died, Valeria wouldn't ever forgive herself. She wouldn't be able to go on living. She was old, in her middle seventies. She had no reason to live other than the drive to be there as long as possible for her granddaughter.

Valeria stared unblinking, watching her granddaughter's chest slowly rise and fall. The old woman clenched her handkerchief.

There was movement outside of the partially open doorway. She noticed it but didn't look. For a second, she thought she imagined it. The beeping went on, measuring the girl's heartbeat. A long moment passed before the old woman sighed.

Slowly, she turned her head.

Godric stood in the doorway. Unchanged. Without age. Still boyish. Frozen in time. He wore a white shirt and pants, was barefoot.

"Lera," he said.

Her breath hitched. He looked like a dream. She thought he was a dream.

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**Please let me know what you think! More chapters coming soon!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Longer than the previous. I rushed to get it done. Godric and Eric are both in it. However, after the season finale, they will be in it far more. I am waiting partly because I want to see what happens to Eric so I can plan and write accordingly. **

***Character and setting reference pics in my profile. One story is set in Russia, after all.**

**Rated M for a reason. Sexual content. **

**Please review if you enjoy it!**

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**Present Day**

There was a curfew, but it didn't matter. Fangtasia was closed because all vampire businesses were supposed to be shut down in Louisiana, but perhaps someone was still there. A shiny silver mustang turned onto Industrial Drive and the driver, a brunette woman in her early twenties, looked out for the club that was at 444. It was 2 AM. The block was empty, save for some bums lurking around garbage bins and at corners. A fire was going in one of the cans and casted orange on the car's body as it passed. The bums' heads turned, briefly glancing at the vehicle—it looked a little out of place, especially on such a quiet night.

The neighborhood wasn't one of the best parts of town, but it was perfect for a vampire bar. The driver saw the appeal. As the street promised, the place was full of industrial buildings, dark and gloomy at night. There was an old factory a street over, its tall pipe tunnels out of commission but looming high above. And the club was tucked between the other warehouses.

Fangtasia's parking lot was empty. Puddles glistened under the moonlight on the uneven asphalt. However, the lights that hung from the building were off. The place was definitely shut down.

After she parked haphazardly between lines because no one was there, the driver looked at herself in the rearview, almost nervous. But she steeled herself, zipped up her leather jacket, then opened her door and climbed out of her car. She stood at about five-foot-four and had a Slavic face. Her large eyes were darkened around the edges with makeup, and her skin was pale, framed by wavy dark brown hair.

Her round face was reminiscent of someone—her grandmother Valeria.

As Eliza approached the club's door, the expression on her face made her appear human. If she were mortal, she would've let out a sigh to help calm herself. Not only did the graffiti on across the door and almost the entire face of the place make her feel bad, but she was looking for someone here, and the idea of possibly meeting _him_ made her anxious.

The club was more than likely empty but there was always a small chance.

The red awning was ripped—a large chunk of it hung and looked like a terrible skylight. Words like "Fuck you, devils" and "Go back to Hell, fanged fucks" were spray painted on both sides of the door, including a cross or two, and even a poorly drawn cock.

Racist hoodlums or religious zealots. Or even those fuckers who basically called themselves new vampire hunters.

Eliza narrowed her eyes, tried to peek inside the dark window behind which hung the turned off _Fangtasia_ sign. But the window was blacked out. She tried the door handle. It didn't turn. Of course, it was locked. And the door was leather—nowhere to knock, or a doorbell to ring, not that she expected one.

She looked around. No one in sight. Down along the building and back towards the direction of the bums it was still. So Eliza took the door handle again, almost tempted to try wrestling with the lock. But she didn't.

Out of habit, she sighed the feigned way a vampire could sigh if days of humanity hadn't yet completely washed away with passing years. She stared at the door. She came this far and Fangtasia was in fact abandoned. Nothing came from inside, not even the smallest of noises.

But this _was_ the place he owned. This was his establishment. She had heard about it, wanted to go here for quite the while to introduce herself, to meet him at last. Yet she never had, and now it was too late.

Eric Northman was a mystery to her. Even from Godric's stories, though they were rather few, she had imagined many versions of her one thousand year old brother. She also knew she had a sister, but where she was, Eliza had no idea.

Little did she know that the way Godric had raised her in his last decade was far from how he had raised Nora and Eric. Perhaps that's why they had never met her, or perhaps Eliza hadn't had the chance because of his tragic end.

At the edge of the radius that her hearing spanned, the girl heard a noise. It was quiet, but she heard it—around the building.

Footsteps. Several. Men, perhaps. More than likely humans, but she couldn't immediately get their scent. There was a chance they could've been vampires, which is why she didn't get the hell out of there right away.

She stepped out from under the ripped awning, looking along the building, waiting for them. Then she glanced at her car.

As the footsteps grew louder, reaching the far corner, she knew they were human. However, she wasn't as afraid she probably should've been. They very well could've been one of those armed troopers of the Governor. However, she wasn't from Louisiana, wasn't used to the situation in the state.

It was a group of four men. The second they had turned the corner, Eliza froze. They looked like hicks, the type of men even humans stayed away from—grizzly, gross-looking, perverted and dangerous. But she saw no weapons, no guns out in the open. She found herself having backed into the parking lot, several meters away from her car.

The men grew as alarmed as she was of them.

"Hey!" one of them shouted, a bearded one.

She said nothing, fished for her keys.

They whispered among themselves. She heard their racing hearts, heard their swears and didn't have to read their minds to know that they were reaching into their pockets and coats for whatever weapons they had.

They slowly pulled out guns. One had a knife. One revealed a bat from behind him. They had been on patrol, stalking the streets. Looking for those who disobeyed the curfew to fuck with, to kill.

"What you doin' here?" another asked, not yet aiming at her, yet holding his pistol tightly. He was covered in tats.

Eliza straightened.

"Got lost. Thought I blew a flat," she called out at last. She had a girlish voice that was slightly husky, a bit accented. She took a step towards her car, keys dangling in her hand.

There was a heavy, tense moment where Eliza took her eyes off them. The men exchanged glances at each other.

"I think she's a fanger!" one yelled.

Eliza gasped, unlocked her car.

"Get the bitch!" roared another. And they started to her—running, aiming their guns.

In a split second, she was in her car, which confirmed their suspicion. The mustang roared to life and she stepped on the gas to turn the car the fuck around and to get the hell out of there. Shots rang out.

A couple even hit the car, pings against the body, making damage that sent shock and anger through her. Gripping the steering wheel, she looked through her rearview and burned rubber. They were slow against a car, but this was a narrow escape.

More shots, but they missed, hitting the asphalt.

She made a turn off Industrial and the only thing the men were able to memorize was that the license plate said California, and the frame said Hollywood Ford on Cahuenga. Clearly things were done differently there. They snickered and swore, made fun of the Californian vamper bitch, and stopped running past several businesses, howling into the night like werewolves they weren't.

Tru Blood was short across the whole country, but there wasn't nearly as much chaos in the liberal west coast state as there was in Louisiana. It was a terrible time to come down south, but with what she had heard on the news, Eliza was worried for her brother.

Now might've in fact been the very best time to come, if he wasn't dead and she could find him, make sure he was all right. But with the unfortunate death of Nora she wasn't aware of, Eliza had no idea that Eric would probably be most unwelcoming because of great grief.

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**Tomsk, Siberia, Russia **

**January 1962**

Lera climbed the apartment's staircase after Misha. His place was on the fourth floor and there weren't any elevators. Lera, including all Russians, were used to the bland, prison-like appearance of where they lived. Without personality, without an ounce of color, were all apartments everywhere across Russia, the entire Soviet Union. Cement walls, cement stairs, iron railings. Sterile-looking and intimidating. Metal doors to each apartment, a sign of paranoia, and large keys to open them.

Puddles formed in the couple's wake on the steps—melted snow their boots had collected. One would think it would be warmer inside, and it was, but it was still cold. There was no heating within the landings of the floors. The two climbed silently, listening to each other's breathing.

Her face blank as she tried to hold in her anxiety, Lera slowly took off her scarf, letting out her curly hair, and felt the drops of melted snow on her hands, like tears. Misha took of his fur hat and looked back at her with wide eyes of anticipation. His thin cheeks were red, and so were his large ears. He ran a hand through his own hair and took out his keys.

She stopped behind him about four feet as he opened his apartment's door.

They hadn't spoken in a while—since he told her what he'd do to her, how he'd fuck her, and properly, too, since they hadn't had the chance. He might've said something else as they walked here but she hadn't registered it or remembered. Her eyes stung.

As she looked down at her hands, she realized she was shaking. In all honesty, she forgot that it was her wedding night. It was early morning by now. Sleep left. She was dazed and numb and this felt like a bad dream. She wanted to wake up from it.

The apartment was sparse, had a strange, not very pleasant manly smell, and some parts were messy. The wallpaper was hideous. Not only was it stuck on terribly, each strip not aligned with the rest for the sake of the pattern, but some places were also peeling. Misha hadn't ever been good at these things. She wasn't surprised. And the linoleum floor was dirty, looked like it hadn't been mopped in months.

They stopped in the short hallway to take off their coats and boots. The apartment was warm, though. In silence, not looking at him, Lera hung her coat, her scarf, put everything away carefully and made sure that her gloves wouldn't fall out of her coat's pockets and God forbid get lost in here.

She tried not to think about the fact that Misha was her husband. It was dark. He didn't turn on the lights yet, and she hoped that he would give her that relief, at least, so she couldn't see him in all of his hunger.

All the while, he had stared at her, devouring her already. After she put her boots together and pushed them to the side by the other shoes that had been haphazardly shoved, Misha closed the distance between them.

She frozen and turned her head away, but that only allowed him access to kiss her neck, sloppily, too. His arms went around her, groping and slipping under her shirt. She didn't protest. She didn't have the energy to. And he turned her around and held her against his thin body.

Closing his eyes, he breathed her in. She felt his nose through her hair. His hands cupped her breasts. For a moment, they stood there in the hallway. He held her until she had no choice but to slacken. She stared at the closed metal door and her eyes misted.

Misha opened his eyes and stared past her head at the door as well. It only faintly reflected their silhouettes. He smiled a thin-lipped smile, sliding one hand out of her shirt.

"You're my wife now." He stroked her hair. "And I'm your-your husband."

Her eyes watered but she willed herself not to cry. She could smell the booze still on him, and sweat. His hand stroked her hair, mussing it. Then he took a deep breath of her. His voice softened, sounded tender. But it made her feel worse instead of better.

"And I…love you."

She didn't return it.

She let out a whimper. He glanced at her out of the corners of his eyes—he saw a glisten. And he felt her uneven breathing. Stopping his hand at the side of her head, his smile faded.

His voice wavered now slightly. He started to take a step and pull her with him. "Come on."

Blinking a few times, she turned her head and saw that he was leading her to his bedroom.

Before, when they got to his mom's house, she was nervous. It would've been her first time, after all, and while she didn't want to do it with him, she didn't remember feeling scared. For some reason she just couldn't. Maybe it hadn't dawned on her like it had now. After the party, it still felt like a dream. Maybe she too was drunk.

Now, he was sober. Now, she felt frightened. No—with each step she took, letting him take her to his door—she felt terrified. Her heart sped, thudded in her ears. The silence in the apartment was suffocating. More tears threatened to pour. She would've done something—anything—in order to get out of this. But she couldn't. She didn't push him away again. She didn't protest as he pushed open his door and she stepped into the darkness after him, vaguely made out a bed.

She found herself led by the terrible fate she knew she accepted by marrying him. She was his wife now. She had no choice.

He turned her around a foot away from the bed. The expression on her face was that of misery. Although it was dark, he must've seen and put a gentle hand on her face.

"Shhh. It's okay. It's alright." And he leaned in to kiss her. She didn't move her lips. She was frozen.

And the lack of reaction from her, not one single response, suddenly sent a wave of anger through him.

He grabbed her and pulled her towards him. She yelped. He wound his arm around her, reached under her skirt. She had tights on. He searched for the top of them, feeling her soft stomach. She whimpered. At least she made some sort of noise. With the other hand, he hurriedly undid his belt.

"You're my wife now," he whispered into her ear—but entirely in a different manner than before. His teeth were clenched. With every second, he seemed to get angrier. She felt it against his chest. It pulsated through his veins, made him thrum.

She wouldn't know what to do if he raped her.

Misha sighed and sat down. He pulled down her tights while she stood in front of him.

"Misha—Misha," she finally spoke, reaching out to his shoulders, as if to hold him at bay. "Misha, please. I-I'm…"

When his fingers snagged the edge of her underwear, a bolt of electric fear, pure fear, went through her. She wondered if he could hear her wild heart. He pulled the panties down. She watched—watched as he watched his own doing—stared at the top of his dark head of hair.

Slowly, he looked up at her, lustfully, persistently, and then slid his hands back up her legs, pulling skirt up. She shook. He took it as fear that every virgin has. Once he revealed her in all of her pure glory, hiking the skirt to her stomach, he pulled her back towards him, wrapped his arms around her curvy frame.

He pressed his face against her, breathed her in. Her eyes widened with horror. He rubbed his nose, mouth, his entire face against her. Her thighs tensed.

She put an arm on his shoulder. He held her with such fierceness that she thought he'd never let go.

"Misha. I-I-" Tears leaked down her face.

"It'll feel good," he breathed. She felt his hot breath between her legs.

She clenched her teeth and closed her eyes, bringing her head back, trying to hold back tears. She didn't want it. She didn't want it at all. She would rather remain a virgin forever.

For a moment, they remained this way—he sitting on the edge of his bed with her standing in front of him. For a split second, she calmed. He merely inhaled her, taking his time, slow and deep, as if she were a flower. And she was to him. She was a beautiful flower and he had her.

Then he suddenly broke the quiet, the calm—with his arms around her he took her thighs in his hands, tried to spread her legs.

"Let me have your pussy." It was growled. He tried to bury his face in her, his nose in her.

She started pushing him away, both hands grabbing his shoulders. His tongue flicked out.

"Hold on, wait. Stop!" she begged.

"It'll feel good. It'll feel good!" he insisted.

He was strong despite his lankiness, compared to her anyway, since he was a man. She frantically searched the darkness for something, anything that could make him stop.

"I need to use the bathroom!" she said suddenly. It didn't make him stop right away. He was attempting to devour her like he promised he would, almost like he couldn't hear, his tongue sloppy. "I need to pee!"

He moaned.

She gathered all her strength and shoved him. "I need to pee!"

"What?" he yelled. He slackened his arms and with that she backed away.

"I need to pee. You don't want me to pee on you, do you?" she asked.

It might've been comical. Maybe she even laughed. She smiled painfully, momentarily. She didn't give him a chance to answer as she ran out of the room, fixing her skirt and darting into the bathroom.

When Misha heard the door slam, he swore. As he glanced down, he saw the bulge in his pants. He clenched his fists and growled. His arousal was too much.

In the bathroom, Lera turned on the water, shook so bad that she could barely keep her hands under the faucet. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were puffy and her cheeks were red. She didn't look like herself. Her brown eyes were dull. She looked like death.

She wet her face, crying, didn't know if she could go back out there.

She still felt his tongue down there. That made her weep. She tried to stifle it.

Meanwhile, Misha trudged angrily to the kitchen, where he promptly took out a bottle of vodka from a cupboard and poured himself a good amount in a dirty looking glass. He swigged half of it in one go, wincing gruffly afterwards.

He'd still fuck her. Oh, he'd fuck the shit out of her.

He stared at the bathroom, the light underneath, and listened to the pipes in the walls. He longer he stared at it, the more he wanted to marched over there and kick open the door. But it was the vodka that kept him in the kitchen. After he finished the glass, he poured another.

It was as he drank it, he heard something behind him, at the window. Like a rapping on the glass. He put his drink down, startled, and turned around. It took a second for him to focus past the shitty white curtains. But once he did, behind them he saw a face.

Godric's face.

The window blew open with a gust. Misha gasped, stumbled back like he was seeing a ghost. As his hands fumbled to grip the countertop behind him, he spilled the vodka. The glass didn't break, however.

"Jesus. Oh Jesus—What the hell—"

But as Godric rose, floating in midair behind the window, his eyes were already locked onto Misha's. His perfect, flawless, youthful face appeared calm, collected, but underneath brewed a deadly fire. Godric's tone only betrayed this by the urgency of his command:

"You won't make a sound."

Misha closed his mouth, but his eyes were wide, as if he lost his voice. He was hideous in comparison to Godric.

The vampire slowly leaned forward, putting his hands on the windowsill. His eyes darted to the bathroom. Lera hadn't heard anything through the water.

As he looked back at Misha, who was a statue, Godric licked his lips and gripped the sill. That too was the only thing that betrayed his fury.

"I heard you," he said. "I did not need to see it."

"Ev-everything?" Misha managed to get out.

"Everything," Godric repeated curtly.

"How?" Misha sounded pathetic.

"Doesn't matter. I am able to hear many things, like the beating of your pathetic little heart."

Misha's eyes misted over. He had no idea who this man was—a ghost, an angel, or the devil. But he was terrified. And he couldn't seem to move.

Godric continued, delivering each word, each syllable with perfect clarity, a master at this art, in complete control.

"You will not touch her. Before she is out of the bathroom, you will go straight to sleep." But Misha's fear didn't make Godric rejoice.

But if he had the chance to get inside, perhaps he wouldn't be able to restrain himself…

The water stopping had him looking back at the bathroom door. He stared at it with longing. His face softened. His gaze wavered as he blinked, and his grip on the sill weakened. His lips parted—he wanted to say more.

The door handle turned.

Godric only saw her beautiful face for a split second before she could notice his in the window. There was a rush of air. Misha was let go. Lera froze in the hallway, looking at his hunched back. Slowly, he turned around.

She didn't say anything, gathered her hair to one side. He looked at her, but not in the same way he had before. His face was slack-jawed, his eyes dead. He started to his bedroom just as Godric had told him. Like zombie.

Lera watched him go past her. He didn't regard her once more. Hesitantly, she followed, holding her elbows. As she looked into the bedroom, she watched him pull back the covers, take off his pants and shirt—still not saying anything, not looking at her. And neither did she speak. He climbed into his bed and settled to sleep.

"Good night," he mumbled. She barely heard it.

She had no idea what came over him, stared at him through the darkness. She couldn't believe it. Leaning against the doorway, she stared for a long while until she heard snoring. Slowly, relief came over her only the way it felt when one narrowly escaped something terrible, something horrible, like a nightmare. It felt the way one awoke from a nightmare. But it wasn't over. It was a pause for now.

Outside of the bedroom window, Godric watched her as she decided to settle in for bed as well. It was very late, almost morning. There was nowhere else for her to sleep but beside Misha. Godric hated it. He had held himself at bay when he glamoured the man, but now, steadily, his restraints were breaking. Godric shook—not violently—but he shook.

Lera didn't touch Misha, lay away from him.

They were married. She was his wife.

What was there for Godric to possibly do?

Tears dried, safe for the moment, Lera's eyes traveled to the window, perhaps thinking she saw something. The sun was coming up. The birds were chirping. She let exhaustion finally consume her. The prospect of sleep gave her a bit greater relief.

* * *

**Ten Years Before Present Day**

She drank the woman's blood. It was a woman of forty, entirely ordinary, with short hair, could've been a mom for all the girl knew. The woman moaned, on the couch, eyes shut, as the girl sat with the woman's head on her lap and drank at with a baby's hunger. They were in a shitty motel room that had an adjacent living space, like a little apartment. It wasn't a very nice place. But it was somewhere where something like this could be hidden and not found out by anyone.

Godric stood behind the couch, watching, monitoring. He spoke calmly as always.

The girl was Eliza. Blood dribbled all over her mouth.

"You shall not drink from the wicked, only from the willing, because we are no one to judge humans by their actions. It is their God who shall do that."

Eliza shut her eyes and moaned too. It was ecstasy. The woman dozed, from both pain and pleasure. Eliza's hair, loose, hung over the sides of her face. Some strands got blood on it.

Godric reached a hand to stroke the top of her head.

"Stop when you hear the heart slowing. So you do not kill them. You mustn't kill them."

Eliza swallowed and swallowed, let the warmth consume her. She hardly heard him.

"Stop," Godric said.

Her eyes slowly opened, but not wide.

His hand moved to her shoulder. "Stop," he repeated. For a moment, it seemed like he would have to yank her away from the woman's neck. Godric gripped her shoulder.

Then, Eliza released the woman herself, drew back with a gasp and her head tilted back. Her fangs glistened red and her chin dribbled. She looked up at her maker with wide eyes, her mouth open.

His eyebrows knotted slightly with what appeared to be worry, but he gave her a small smile, Eliza's face reminding him of her grandmother's.

The woman on her lap moaned and opened her eyes, lifting her head. She began to get up from the girl's lap, dizzy.

"Get up slowly," Godric suggested.

"We done?" the donor asked, quickly cupping her neck and wincing.

"Yes," he answered. He stepped to her. "Let me…take care of that." He indicated the bite marks. She hesitated, looked at Eliza, who in turn, sated, stared on a bit dazed.

Godric let out his fangs and used one of them to pierce a fingertip. Cautiously, the woman watched him reach towards her and she tilted her neck. He gently smudged his blood over the wound. It miraculously healed.

"Why aren't you having any?" Eliza asked, like a child.

And Godric was patient with her. "Because I am not hungry." Because he was long able to survive with minimal blood.

His face, so tender, so warm and kind—it was far more loving than her real father's. Eliza would forever have it engrained in her mind. She would never forget it. As her grandmother never did. Godric had probably been turned, all those two thousand years ago, when he was younger than Eliza, but he was as old and wiser than any man she'd ever met.

He was her father now. And she already loved him.

* * *

**Present Day**

Eliza had watched for over an hour in the cemetery of Bon Temps. She hid a good distance away from where she thought the source of the smell came from. It was both vampire and something else. She couldn't figure out what. She had never smelt it before. And yet the cemetery was empty. She crouched far away enough in case something happened, or something, someone came out—the vampire whose scent lingered—and most importantly within a good vantage point to see a majority of the place.

She thought she'd just wait and see. The scent was all she had. She'd come to Bon Temps after Shreveport because she had heard word that her brother frequented Bon Temps.

When the bright light suddenly appeared out of nowhere, she lifted a hand to her face, her eyes wide. It looked like a portal because something began climbing out of it. She had never seen anything like it. She tensed and stood, ready to flee because she learned her lesson after Fangtasia.

A man, a tall man, blond, in a dark jumpsuit, stepped onto the grass, wiping his bloody mouth with his sleeve. The portal vanished behind him once he was out of it. It was Eric. He looked like he devoured enough blood to last him for weeks, looked like he "ate a whole pig" as humans would say, an "entire cow."

Where he got it, Eliza couldn't imagine. Nor could she begin to fathom where in hell he had climbed from.

This was her brother.

However, she didn't have time to stare. Eric sensed her. His head turned in her direction. He knew she was there, but didn't know who she was.

And she froze for a second. Seeing the bright light had her hesitating, had her on guard. She freaked out. She fled at once. Eric was too fat and happy at the moment to chase after whoever saw him. He didn't give a rat's ass.

He wiped his mouth again, growling with a smile, looking around the silent cemetery like he'd robbed a bank, or maybe stolen someone's bride and drained her, or more exactly…almost drained Warlow entirely. Eric too fled within another moment.

* * *

**So this last moment was never showed, so I thought I'd write it out. This story will be going back and forth between Lera and Eliza. I want to explore two stories at once, and saw that this is the way to do it. I hope you don't mind. I love Godric and Eric both and can explore them both. But of course, things have to be executed realistically with both stories, especially with Godric. Baby steps. **

**Regarding Eliza, although she's ten in vampire years, she's quite young, and Jessica and Tara haven't lost their humanity yet. Also, it is very important to note that Godric did raise Eliza differently, perhaps tried to preserve her innocence, as innocent as a vampire can be. Lots more flashbacks to come. We'll be jumping around but it'll be cohesive! **

**There will be more of everyone soon after this season finale!**

**Let's hope Eric doesn't die or vanish completely! AHH!**

**Please review if you like it so far! This encourages me and gets me to write faster! I love to hear that you've enjoyed it! Thanks so much!  
**

***This is not a self insert. I am not Mila Kunis. Hahhaha.**


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm sorry for not updating soon! I'm moving so that's taking up time. I hope you enjoy this new chapter. And let me know what you think and review!**

* * *

**Present Day**

**The Night after Warlow's Draining**

The moment that the gate to the underground parking garage opened, the black Bentley Continental sped out into the night and left the modern-looking apartment complex behind. The car headed towards the highway, in direction of the airport. The time was 9:30 PM. The Bentley sped and wove in and out of passing cars, and once it reached the freeway, it was hitting over 90 mph.

It was Eric behind the wheel, dressed to the nines in suit that was more expensive than the cars surrounding him. He had not a care in the world. He had been awake during the day, and it was night now, but he didn't need sleep. No more bleeds, no more fatigue. He felt more energized, more alive and renewed in his mind, body, and soul than the day he had been made vampire. There was nothing comparable than this.

It hadn't just been a cure—drinking Warlow's blood—it had been evolutionary. And Eric had been the first one. One of few.

He felt unstoppable. No, he _was_ unstoppable. Now, he no longer had the weaknesses that had been with him for one thousand years. Nothing could harm him, nothing could hinder him. Not any human, nor the great, almighty sun.

Adjusting his rearview, Eric smiled at his reflection, so wide he knew he hadn't smiled like this in a very long time. Honestly, he couldn't remember if there was a previous time. There were no words to describe his happiness. Well, perhaps it was more like exhilaration, something that kept his grief at bay.

As his thoughts automatically went to Nora—and Godric—his grin weakened.

And he stepped on the gas. The Bentley roared.

It wasn't very like him not to notice that he was being followed. He was too preoccupied internally. It was a silver Mustang that tried to keep up, weaving in and out of the flow of cars, keeping him in sight.

Eliza felt her body thrumming. She squeezed the steering wheel, never taking her eyes off of the Bentley. If there was one thing that Godric had taught all of his children it was how to use their stealth and be inconspicuous.

She had no idea where Eric was going, but she sensed that something might've been wrong. The more she thought about what she had witnessed in the Bon Temps cemetery, the more it seemed unreal—part of her thought she imagined it—and the entire occurrence, and now this chase, convinced her that Eric was in trouble.

There were flashing red and blue lights of a cop car ahead of them, and Eric slowed down just in time. Eliza did just the same. The cop had stopped someone unlucky. And as soon as Eric had passed him, he floored the gas once more, narrowly slipping between vehicles that didn't even have time to honk.

Eliza managed not to lose him, but shook her head.

She had no idea of the venom that still coursed through him after what had happened at the Governor's complex—having no clue about the tragedies at all.

With the rate he was going, the airport exit appeared in no time. Eliza followed discretely a couple of cars away.

He was planning to fly away? He was running—she was sure of it now.

Indeed, Air Sweden flight 8797 was to depart in a little over an hour. There was a convenient reminder that flashed across the screen of Eric's iPhone. It lay in the seat beside him, illuminating the darkness inside his car. It was a new phone, not the one he'd lost after he'd taken Willa.

Pam would take care of her—and Tara. He was leaving his first progeny again, but that thought was quicker to banish. He had been leaving her so much now that with each time, it had become easier. And he had released her, anyway. She would be fine. Pam was always fine.

His smile was gone completely now. Yet as he saw the sign for Terminals, he steeled himself. He was going home. He wasn't running away. He was doing something that was long overdue, and because he didn't have to hide in the dark, anymore, he would revisit his Motherland in her entirety, let her take him back with open arms. This feeling went deeper than in his bones.

Because it was almost ten by this point, the airport wasn't busy. Eric stopped at a light right before the airport's vicinity.

Eliza tensed as she paused only a car away from him, her eyes glued. She stared through the glass in the car in front of her, past the human, watching every shift Eric's silhouette made.

She could hear old Swedish music playing inside of his car. But she forced herself to glance away and looked up at an airplane that rose ahead into the night sky, twisting her ponytail with her hand.

And he still didn't notice her. And after a few moments, the light turned green. She followed him the way the signs led. Air Sweden was in the fourth terminal, among a whole list of international airlines. He could've been going to Russia on Aeroflot, or to Japan for all she knew.

Carefully, she followed him, passing entrances to different airlines, making sure not to get too close, waiting for him to pull over. Her stalking was making her anxious. Near the end of the terminal, there was Air Sweden, and finally, he turned his wheel and slowed, came to a stop.

So did she, but she turned into Lufthansa, stopped her car to watch him at a distance of about five cars. These drop off places—they all had time limits.

There was no one to take his car, and Eric didn't appear to care. He got out after making sure he had his cell and popped open the trunk, from which he retrieved a small bag, more like a briefcase instead of suitcase—he looked like a business man about to go on a trip.

After he shut the trunk, he started walking away from the expensive steed.

It didn't take long for an airport worker that was monitoring the traffic to notice. The short Hispanic man called for him.

"Sir! Sir! You can't leave your car!"

Eric ignored him on his way to the sliding doors.

However, the worker caught up with him, reached for his arm. The vampire spun around at once, making the man flinch.

"S-sir, you can't leave your car. This is a drop off zone only!"

Eric _hmm'd_ but it sounded like a growl, and as the worker stared at him, the man stepped back, realizing that Eric was a vampire. But instead of glamouring, or making a further scene, Eric suddenly took out his key.

"Here," he said, shocking him by holding it out. "Take it."

The man looked down at the key, wide-eyed. "Wh-what?"

"Take it," Eric repeated impatiently. "It's to that Bentley right over there." He pointed casually.

"What?" the man repeated as he followed Eric's finger.

"No? Okay, well perhaps your coworker will want it instead…" Eric looked at another worker, an old white guy, several airlines away, busy doing his job. And obviously tired.

The man in front of Eric made a noise that sounded like a muffled cry of joy. The vampire put the key to the beautiful Bentley in his hand. "I will get another one where I'm going. Drive it well, or perhaps sell it and get your extended family to the _land of the free_."

There was a lilt of condescension in his voice.

Not knowing what to say, the man looked down at the key, like a miracle dropped out of the sky. And the key was high-tech, not an actual metal key, but a little rectangular device.

Who the hell would give up a Bentley? Eliza watched through her windows.

But when the man looked up, Eric was already through the sliding doors.

Eliza swore and put the emergency lights on, running out of her own car. She passed the man with the key, and for the moment, he didn't notice that she left her Mustang. Once she got past the sliding doors, she stopped to scan the sea of people for the tall blond.

Although there hadn't been traffic on the way there, the international terminal was packed. Flights left at this hour to arrive during the day on the other side of the world.

As she stood, looking around, time ticked. She had had his scent. But she lost it among the entanglement of other smells—humans and vampires. Young people, old people, families and teenagers.

Although there was a curfew, it appeared to be disregarded here at the airport. Everyone had places to be. Perhaps because it was an international zone, a neutral zone. Thank fuck for that.

Eliza decided to start walking right, not knowing if that was the wrong choice. There were lines, and spoken languages blended together with a sense of urgency and anticipation. Parents tried to rear children—Asian kids, French kids, wailing Indian babies. Backpackers. Teenagers from England. Soccer players. Honeymooners.

British Airways, China Airlines, SWISS, Thai Airways, Korean Air. The list went on.

She walked till the end of one side, stopped, looked at the line to Turkish Airways, and threw her hands slightly.

She stood there for a good minute, taking another moment to search the crowd. She looked from person to person, heard the bickering of parents, the excited chattering of children whose bedtime it was past, the talk of young adults who whispered about possibly smoking opium in Turkey.

Luggage was weighed and tossed, some people having far more than they should.

Eliza took a step to go back to the middle of the terminal and down the other side. No sooner had she turned around than she bumped into someone.

And as she backed away at once, she saw it was him—Eric. In person. Very tall, broad-chested, intimidating.

Although he didn't cause a scene, he didn't appear happy to discover his stalker.

"Looking for someone?" he asked, his gaze unfathomable. She could tell the unmistakable warning underneath his relatively level tone.

He sensed her nervousness. But she smiled, almost grinned, and straightened, for he towered over her. She lifted her chin and held his gaze fearlessly. She was wary of what he'd done, whatever it was, whoever he had drained, but finally she had the chance to meet him face-to-face.

Her eyes quickly traveled over him. "Well, you actually."

And Eric's fist clenched as he held his briefcase, but he remained calm. "Hm." He looked around briefly, and a small, false smile tugged at his lips. Eliza's own waned as she too glanced at the passing people around them.

He took a step towards her. "And why are you looking for me?"

She glanced down between them, remaining where she was, tensing. She licked her lips. Gravity entered her voice. "Because of Godric."

His face went blank at that. He blinked. This wasn't what he expected, nor wanted to hear. Not his maker's name. It hit him like ton of bricks, as it did every time.

Eliza looked back up at him. She saw the expression on his face—a mix of incredulity, aggravation, disbelief—all compressed in a look that was a close step away from deadly.

So she spoke rather fast. She raised her hands. "I don't know where you're going or why, but I saw you in the cemetery. And it looked like you're running away. It looked like you drained someone—"

He growled as he leaned toward her and she narrowed her eyes. His voice grew low, as threatening as he could manage in an airport setting.

"I smelled you there."

Nothing was supposed to stop him. He was supposed to make a clean getaway.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

Eliza lowered her hands and looked at him in earnest. "My name is Eliza. Godric," she paused, frowning, "—he was my maker too, ten years ago."

Eric straightened as if he took a very deep, very strained breath. Astonishment flooded into him. He stared at her as if his stomach had plunged, and sneered.

"Did you think of this as you tried to keep up with me on the freeway—in that Ford piece of shit?"

Eliza's eyebrows drew. So she wasn't as good as she thought at following people—or it was because he was much older than she was. She bristled slightly—her car wasn't a piece of shit—but didn't snap at him.

"What?" She scoffed. "You don't believe me?"

Eric's fangs clicked into place and he got dangerously close to her. His grief threatened to tear the string that kept his volatility at bay.

This was the last thing he needed. It didn't register to him that she might've been telling him the truth—he didn't even consider it. It was horseshit. His brain was set on flight, nothing else. He was supposed to get the fuck out of there. He had tunnel vision. Godric made no one else. Only Nora and him and now Nora was dead. He was the only one left.

"I will give you the count of ten, little girl. I have a plane to catch."

She glared at him now. He was intimidating all right. "What, to Sweden? Why don't we go you to Russia instead—show you where I met Godric."

As she used _his_ name again, Eric's nostrils flared. Eliza looked at his fangs, which peered between his lips, peeking enough to try and scare her away. Then she looked out of the corner of her eye to the people, the human people, who sat against the windows and stared at them. A mother drew back her idling children.

No sooner had Eric too glanced at them and straightened, concealing his teeth, than both he and Eliza heard someone behind them twenty feet or so at an entrance into the terminal.

A blonde, who stopped and looked around desperately.

It was Pam—in the gym outfit she had worn at Bill's. As Eric turned his head, she was incredibly relieved to see him, so full of emotion, having looked everywhere for him. It was a miracle she found him. But that moment was brief. As she stepped towards him, she saw Eliza behind him, and darkness swept over the blonde's made-up face.

She was the last person Eric had wanted to see.

A heavy moment passed between the three of them, and Pam rushed over. Eliza took a step back.

Pam glared her viciously but immediately turned to Eric, looking him over, seeing his suitcase. Her voice was full of anger and sorrow. "I've looked everywhere for you! Where you goin'? You're-you're flyin' away? Just like that!"

Eric sneered again and hissed, "Yes."

Pam's desperation escaped out as she grabbed his arm. "No! You're not doin' this again!"

It dawned on Eliza. "You're Pamela?"

Pam narrowed her eyes on her. "Who the fuck are you?"

For all the blonde knew, this bitch was escaping with Eric.

"Uh," Eliza said, crossing her arms, not liking her tone. "Excuse me?"

Pam stepped towards Eliza, putting her hands on her hips. "I said who the fuck are you?"

Before she was able to get right into Eliza's face, Eliza already raising her hands to defend herself, Eric grabbed his progeny by the arm. "I am going to Sweden. Alone."

As he looked around, he saw movement in the crowd, more people watching them.

Eric spoke in a harsh whisper. "Go back to Bill's, Pam." Eliza watched them both.

Pam was more hurt than she'd ever been—her beautiful face filled with abandonment. For a split second, Eliza thought the woman would cry. But Pam didn't, of course. However, her pain felt palpable. Just after they were able to walk in the sun, for the first time in many decades, what felt like forever, a chance to live life anew, Eric was leaving her—Pam had thought they would be together, experience everything together. A new start. Feed, kill, and live as they had after he had first made her. In the brilliant, warm sun!

But he didn't seem to give a shit—was acting completely selfish, was shunning her away.

Angrily, after a beat, Pam ripped her arm out of her maker's grip. "Fuck you," she spat.

Eric swallowed, gritted his teeth. "Fine." And he started turning around, started leaving in direction of the security checkpoint. He barely looked at Eliza.

"Wait," she said. He was walking away. Pam stared at him, too furious to shed any tears. Eliza started after him. "Wait, hold on. Eric!"

Pam's voice weakened, cracked. She swore in Swedish. "Son of a bitch—I hate you."

Eric heard her.

As he quickened his pace, trudging through the crowds, he was aware of Eliza after him. But he hoped she'd fuck off before he was forced to do something he would greatly regret. People he passed stepped away from him, sensing his aura—they almost parted the way for him. He tensed, forcing himself to calm down.

There was a separate line for vampires. The struggle for complete equality between races didn't prevail just yet, especially in this state.

As vampires hurriedly filed in after him and cut her off, Eliza didn't reach him.

Looking back, she couldn't see Pam anymore.

"Shit." Eliza did an impatient dance behind the line where families stood waving to those they had sent off. It was too late. She'd come all this way. And he didn't believe anything she had said.

Eric was reaching for his passport as the line moved. The TSA worker was human, glared silently at all of the vampires he checked in.

Eliza looked back and forth between Eric and where Pam had been, debating on what to do. Give up? Go find Pam? Go after Eric? Buy a plane ticket and go to Sweden with him?

"Next," called the TSA worker. Eric stepped up to the platform, handed his passport and ticket, and didn't look back once.

The worker looked at both, scanned the passport, checked the ticket, looked up at Eric with a cold, racist face to make sure the photo matched. After a moment as Eric too returned the hateful look, the man stamped the ticket. Once he returned the items, Eric started past.

No sooner had he reached the stack of bins to put his things in to be scanned than he heard yelps and cries of startle behind him, and felt someone grab his arm. Spinning around, he saw it was Eliza.

"You can't leave," she beseeched—but not in the heartbreaking way Pam had. Eliza's face was full of steadfast determination, and promise—promise that his life here, now, in America, didn't have to be over. He didn't have to flee. Of course, he didn't register it that way.

"Security!" someone was already calling. "Security!" Footsteps. Sound of men.

Eric looked around at them with alarm. "Fuck!"

Eliza reached inside of her jacket into a pocket, hurriedly took something out, a thick, old looking folded piece of paper. It was a photo. She quickly unfolded it. It was sepia toned. There were two people in it. A man and a woman.

"Don't move!" another man shouted.

Because of the regulations enforced by the Governor (no one knew that he was dead yet) and because Eliza got through the check in, frightened people—seeing a vampire run at super speed was startling to humans, after all—guns were raised.

Eric lifted his hands. But Eliza did not. As he looked at the photo in her hand, he saw that the man in it was Godric—but the woman he didn't know. However, it was Valeria, smiling, and his maker, also smiled softly, sitting beside her on a couch. They were in someone's home.

Eric raised his eyes and stared at the girl before him. And slowly she too lifted her hands at last, still holding the picture, not taking her gaze off of him or facing the TSA.

"Believe me now?" she asked. "This is my grandmother with Godric."

"Step out of the line and come with us!" one of the men ordered.

Eric said nothing and looked at the TSA personnel. He wasn't going to Sweden anymore.


End file.
